You Talk Too Much
by TardisBluePen
Summary: After many months of living with Holmes, Watson finally cracks. He can't hold in his many complaints. And Holmes can only think of one way to shut him up...oneshot, very slight slash. please R&R and I will love you forever. rated T to be safe.


**A/N: **This made much more sense in my head…anyway, thank you for stumbling on this little piece of mine! PLEASE R&R and constructive criticism is great (and praise is even better!), but don't judge me or the story until you've read it!…and the A/N at the end of it. I apologize ahead of time if they get a little OOC (although I dearly hope they don't).

Mkay?

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize is not mine…if it was, this delightful little scene would have been in the movie. ;)

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Now, enjoy.

"HOLMES!!"

The yell of anger broke through the air like a siren, jerking Holmes to his feet. In a flash, he dropped his violin and scrambled for the window, desperate to make an escape from the terrifying anger of his companion, Watson. Holmes wasn't entirely sure what he had done this time, but judging by the sound of the good doctor's voice, he wasn't really sure he wanted to stick around to find out.

But he wasn't fast enough.

Barely two seconds later, Watson burst into the room, finding Holmes with one leg out the window, and looking strangely guilty.

"Hello Watson." Holmes tried to cover up his obvious attempt at escape. He spoke so casually, they might have been discussing the weather.

"Holmes," Watson sighed. "Would you care to explain something to me?"

"Anything, old boy." And Holmes hoisted his leg—with a bit of difficulty—back through the window, making a spectacular fall on the way. After picking himself up, he followed Watson to his room.

Upon entering the room, one of the first sights his eyes found was the dog, Gladstone, lying on the floor, unmoving.

"He's not moving." Watson was unusually gifted at stating the obvious.

"An excellent observation Watson." Holmes said. He bent down to get a closer look at the still body.

"Yes Holmes, but what I want to know is why, WHY is he not moving?" Watson sounded aggravated.

"Well, this is just an educated guess, but it could be that new anesthetic I tested on him this morning." Holmes said with the air of solving another difficult case.

He looked back at Watson, as if to get his medical opinion on the matter, as if to ask "Well Watson, what do you think?" Watson merely glared at him.

"You're funny." He said, though his lack of a grin said otherwise.

"Yes, thank you, I rather think so." Holmes stood back up, pulled his pipe out of his coat pocket and lit it.

Watson just huffed, and sat down in one of the two armchairs next to his window. When Holmes decided to join him by sitting in the empty chair, Watson picked up a newspaper, and hid his face behind it.

"He doesn't mind." Holmes muttered in a low voice, pointing a finger back at Gladstone. "Do you, boy?" he looked back at the dog, which remained unmoving. "He'll be fine." Holmes assured himself, seeing as how Watson wasn't paying him any attention.

After several minutes of a somewhat forced and rather uncomfortable silence, Holmes spoke again.

"Do you know what I like about you?"

Assuming that Holmes could only be talking to him, Watson lowered the newspaper halfway, only letting his eyes appear over the top.

"You've got the grand gift of silence, Watson."

Watson's eyes narrowed as Sherlock leaned forward slightly. "And that makes you quite invaluable as a companion to me."

Before he knew it, Holmes was leaning back in his chair, clutching his punched nose. He had dropped his pipe. Watson smirked slightly as he rustled the newspaper, bringing it back up in front of his face.

Holmes fiddled with his nose for a minute, before attempting to speak again.

"Watson…" Holmes mumbled so low, he wasn't sure Watson had heard him, and for a split second, he dearly hoped so. But his hopes were pummeled when Watson looked up with a curious look on his face.

"Watson, I--" He couldn't seem to get the words out.

"What is it, Holmes?" Watson asked with a sigh.

"I just wanted to say that I--" He was never very good at this. "I'm sorry for…for experimentingonthedog."

The last words came so jumbled that he was sure Watson hadn't understood him. And sure enough—

"What was that, Holmes?"

Of course Watson would make him say it again.

"I'm sorry," Holmes gritted his teeth, "for experimenting on the dog."

"Ah." And Holmes thought he heard Watson suppress a chuckle. "Well, thank you Holmes, that really means a lot." He brought the newspaper down. "I don't remember the last time I heard you actually apologize for something."

Holmes looked away from the annoyingly smarmy grin on Watson's face, and found a distraction: his violin. He picked it up, along with his bow, and began strumming a few of its strings.

The two of them went into a tense silence, broken by the occasional chuckle from Watson who was probably still relishing in Holmes' moment of embarrassment.

After a couple of chuckle-filled minutes, Holmes decided that he'd had enough of being laughed at. He did the first thing that came to his mind to make Watson stop: he pointed his violin bow directly at Watson's nose—what he was actually going to do, he didn't know yet…possibly extract revenge for the hit Watson had taken at him earlier.

Another minute of silence passed; Watson was trying to ignore the bow in his face and Holmes was not showing any sign of moving.

"Holmes."

"Yes, what is it, Watson?" Holmes was concentrating on keeping the bow pointed right in front of Watson's nose.

"Get that thing out of my face."

"It's not in your face," Holmes replied smartly. "It's in my hand."

"Well then, get what's in your hand out of my face." Watson couldn't decide between laughing out loud, and punching Holmes in the nose again. Both choices seemed awfully tempting…

Holmes remained stationary for a second, as though contemplating whether he should move away or not. But eventually, he lowered his arm and set the bow aside, picking up his violin again.

After a few more painful minutes of silence, during which Watson tried to hold back the laughter that threatened to burst, Holmes spoke.

"To be perfectly honest, Watson," Holmes suddenly seemed to be showing more interest than was necessary in strumming his violin, "I did think you'd be…complaining a bit more." He chanced a glance at Watson, who had stopped laughing, and now looked dumbstruck.

"Complaining?"

"About Gladstone, yes, it does seem to be something you'd do." Holmes tried to sound casual again, but he was now looking everywhere possible, except his companion.

When Watson didn't respond, Holmes gave him a nervous glance. Watson was just staring at him.

"When do I complain?" He asked. "Have you ever heard me complain?"

Sherlock remained silent; there was no easy way to answer that question.

"I mean, really, why should I be able to complain about anything that you do? It wouldn't make a difference, would it?" He stopped and took a deep breath. "I don't complain."

"Oh really?" Holmes cocked his head to the side, confused. "Well then, what would you call that Watson?"

"Holmes." He had a certain don't-argue-with-me tone that Sherlock had heard before. "I never complain."

Holmes coughed, perhaps a bit too quickly to be believable. If there was one thing Watson did often…he looked away again.

"Oh really, Holmes." Watson stood up, and began meandering around the room. "I mean, when do I ever complain about you practicing violin at three in the morning?" He gestured toward the instrument in Holmes' hands. "Or what about your mess?" He glanced around the room, not seeming to realize that it was his room which they were currently occupying. "Your general lack of hygiene." He grimaced at Holmes when he said this. Holmes looked mildly offended, sniffing himself for good measure; he coughed slightly. Perhaps he did overdo on the alcohol…

"Or perhaps," Watson interrupted his thoughts, "your constant experimentations on my dog?"

"Our dog." Holmes immediately corrected him.

"Gladstone was my dog first."

Holmes was silent for a moment, until Watson had turned away from him. "We share him," he muttered softly—

"He's my dog!" Watson interrupted loudly, and Holmes hung his head.

"Setting fire to the rooms," Watson then continued as if no unnecessary words had been exchanged. "Not even having the decency to keep your experimentations in your own part of the building…

"And what about the fact that you steal my clothes?!" Watson gestured at him, and Holmes looked down at the waistcoat he was wearing, which had indeed been Watson's.

"Give it back." Watson held out his hand for the waistcoat. "Give that back to me, Holmes."

"I thought we agreed that it was too small for you."

"I'd like it back."

"But I thought we agreed--"

"I want it back, now, Holmes!"

Sighing, Holmes undid the waistcoat and handed it back to Watson, who rolled it up, and tossed behind him without a second glance back.

Deciding to find a replacement for now absentee waistcoat, Holmes picked up the doctor's hat, which had been lying on the empty chair, and put it on. "So, where were we?" he asked, looking up at Watson with mild interest.

"You keep stealing my clothes, Holmes!" yelled the exasperated Watson.

"Ah." Holmes casually pulled his jacket tighter around himself, as if to hide any other articles of clothes he was wearing that might have been Watson's. The act did not go unnoticed by the doctor.

"Holmes!"

"We have a barter system." Holmes stated matter-of-factly.

Watson groaned in annoyance and frustration.

"We have a big problem here." He sighed.

"What?" Holmes was genuinely curious.

"Why don't you figure it out for yourself, Holmes?" And he gestured to the room at large—perhaps he was talking about the general mess, or the small burns from where Holmes had started his fires; maybe the bullet holes in the walls—Holmes had apparently run out of space on his walls, and started on Watson's instead, or maybe Gladstone, who by now could probably be considered a medical miracle.

Holmes barely had time to register any of this however, before he noticed Watson snatching something off his head.

"And that's MY hat!"

"I thought we agreed--" Holmes stood up and began moving toward him.

"We never agreed on any thing!" Watson interrupted.

"Lalalalalalala," Holmes covered his ears. "Let me finish Watson," He said calmly but firmly, his voice carrying over Watson's. "I thought we agreed that what's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine." And Holmes made a grab for Watson's hat. He missed.  
Watson stared at him, incredulous.

"What's yours IS mine, Holmes; you don't have anything of your own!" He laughed in amazement. "Honestly Holmes, is there anything you own that you did not steal from me?" Watson was genuinely interested in the answer to this question.

Holmes contemplated for a moment, before holding up his violin and plucking a few strings.

Watson barely suppressed a grin. He raised his eyebrow at Sherlock; sometimes the man could be so ridiculous.

"Got this when the carnival came to town." He said, looking at it fondly. "Found it." He plucked a few strings. "In a—uh…abandoned carriage." He looked back at Watson with a silly grin on his face, as if to say "Coincidence, huh?"

Watson clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to pass off a chuckle as a sigh. Holmes looked rather pleased with himself. Hoping that Watson had blown off enough steam, he said,

"Well, if that's everything Watson, the Opera House is putting on Don Giovanni, and I've got us some tickets for this evening—"

"Not quite, Holmes." He said, stopping Holmes in his tracks toward the door.

"My relationship with Mary." He said. "You never stopped attempting to sabotage it." He walked up to Holmes, and stared him straight in the eyes, as though he was trying to see inside him, to find the reason why.

Holmes merely shrugged, neither admitting nor denying the claim, and plucked his violin.

"Don't shrug at me like that, Holmes." Watson continued. "We both know how you felt about us."

Despite the fact that Watson was talking about something that Holmes had assumed would be hurting him, he didn't sound angry or upset at all. On the contrary, Watson's voice sounded quite casual about the issue—or perhaps he had merely gotten tired of yelling—as though they were discussing it over tea.

"You were never happy with the idea of us getting married. You refused to help me find the right ring for her; you even kept my money hidden from me so I couldn't buy the ring once I found it." Watson looked deeper into his eyes.

"Goodness knows you did everything in your power to try to stop us from being together." His voice had gotten softer, almost to a whisper.

His eyes were so penetrating; Holmes couldn't look away, no matter how hard he tried; he just continued to stare, unblinkingly into the deep blue orbs.

Watson took in a deep breath before continuing. "What I simply can't figure out Holmes, is why?"

Holmes blinked. Watson sighed.

"I guess it doesn't really matter now, does it Holmes? She's gone. So congratulations, you've succeeded. You don't have to worry about me getting married and leaving you anymore…" his words drifted away into silence, as a sudden realization dawned on him. He moved away from Holmes, averting his eyes as he went. He sat down in his chair again, and placed his chin in his hands, looking contemplative.

"You know, Watson…" Sherlock started cautiously, looking at the floor—he had abandoned his attempts at plucking. "I've still got those tickets to the Opera, if you're interested…"

Watson gave an incredulous chuckle from behind his hands.

"You really are something Holmes, you know that?"

As he stood up again, Holmes quickly held up his violin—the only thing that he happened to be holding—in case he needed to defend himself…for whatever reason. He really did have to stop being so suspicious, he was sure he looked rather ridiculous.

"After everything we've just talked about, all our problems; after you've just poisoned my dog, AGAIN--"

"OUR dog will be fine!" Holmes stated confidently.

"And all you can do," Watson continued as if he hadn't heard Holmes, "is ask me if I want to go to the Opera tonight?"

"Yes." Holmes answered simply. He relaxed slightly, and began rummaging around in his—or rather, Watson's—jacket for the tickets.

Watson scoffed. "My goodness Holmes, it's like you never have any…respect or any courtesy for anything in this house!" Watson ran a hand through his hair distractedly. "Poor Gladstone might really be dead for all we know! You keep scaring off my patients by putting bullets in the walls! Mrs. Hudson is now terrified to go into your room…and I don't think I'll ever be able to get your alcohol stains out of my clothes." He looked around disgustedly. "Living here…ugh, it's like living in a pigsty!"

"Watson."

"You know, one of these days, you're actually going to kill poor Gladstone. Don't you ever think before you act?" Watson scoffed. "Someday, Holmes, one of your experiments will go all wrong and KABLAM!" He made a violent movement. "You're gonna blow a hole right through your wall!"

Holmes was wide-eyed, shocked. THAT was a bit of an exaggeration, he thought.

"Goodness knows you'll probably end up blowing apart the whole house!"

"Poor Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said to himself with a smirk.

Meanwhile, Watson was still ranting.

"And to think, all this time, your motives to keep Mary and I apart were—were just so unlike you Holmes! I merely thought that…that you continued your absurd attempts simply because you enjoyed seeing me suffer."

"I did not," Holmes scoffed. That idea was quite ridiculous.

"You were being a prick."

Holmes gasped. That was unexpected, not to mention—he thought—a bit uncalled for. He had to admit—though he never would out loud—he was hurt.

"My one chance at having a normal life, and you ruined it, Holmes! Who'd ever thought that I would get to meet a nice girl, settle down, and maybe start a family, no! Now, that chance is gone! And all thanks to you, do you know why she left me, Holmes?"

Holmes shrugged; he really wasn't all that interested.

"It's you fault. She didn't like you, Holmes. She said you were rude, obnoxious, careless, she said you were indecent…not to mention, I…well, she thought I talked about you a bit too much." Watson finished in a low voice; but Holmes heard him, and he looked up in time to see a slight blush crossing over the doctor's cheeks.

"And now I'll never get her back. Holmes…do you realize what you've made me lose?" Watson looked at him. Then he sighed. "Why couldn't you have found a nice girl to settle down with? Really. I mean, just because you never had a chance with Adler--" he muttered, and Holmes rolled his eyes. Irene was in the past, and she had told him herself that they shouldn't dwell on it.

Watson was still talking.

"Watson." Holmes attempted to gain the doctor's attention; he was getting a bit concerned.

"Why is the only woman you've ever really cared for a world class criminal? Are you a masochist?" Watson chuckled softly. "I mean, the last time you had an encounter with her, you woke up naked, handcuffed to a bed…" Watson's blush was even more pronounced this time, and it took all Holmes had not to stare at this strange occurrence. Luckily, Watson's next words distracted him.

"Is that the reason you don't like women very much? Do you find them hard to trust?"

Holmes said nothing.

"Well, not all women are like that, Holmes," Watson continued. "And especially not Mary." He sighed. "I expect you just have trust issues…especially when it comes to women…just because your chance of getting a nice girl were—next to nothing, doesn't mean that mine were as well! You were just jealous, Holmes!"

Holmes found that quite absurd. It wasn't _Watson _he was jealous of…he blushed, but Watson's next words jerked him to his senses.

"And you HAD to go and take everything out on me, didn't you, Holmes? Had to take out your anger on me, and put your problems on me, and make my life worse?"

"Watson." Holmes said again, more firmly this time. But, Watson paid no heed.

"I've never had this many problems before I met you," Watson continued, now just rambling. He was pacing up and down the room. "Did you know, I've been going over my notes of our exploits over the past seven months, Holmes. And would you like to hear my conclusions?" Without waiting for a response from Holmes, he continued, "…I am psychologically _disturbed_."

"My dear Watson, what on earth ARE you talking about?" Holmes asked, looking worried.

"I just. Can't. Believe you, Holmes." Watson continued as if he had been deaf to Holmes' words.

Holmes sighed. There was only one way to get him to shut up. And now was as good a time as any—

"It's your fault I'm so disturbed, Holmes; I've never been so tense in my entire--"

"JOHN H. WATSON!" Holmes shouted.

Watson stopped, utterly shocked.

"I think I've figured out what the problem is." Holmes said, taking a step towards him.

"And, uh…what would that be, Holmes?" He had barely finished his sentence before Holmes had stepped even closer, arms out, and pulled Watson tight against him, crushing their mouths together.

After a few seconds of this sudden intensity, they broke apart. Holmes' hands were still tightly clamped around Watson.

"You talk too much."

**FIN.**

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**A/N: **Okay, a couple things: **1)** I don't know the real origin of Holmes' violin, so please don't ask. I just made it up for the sake of the story. **2)** Please don't ask me why I called him Sherlock at those few random points…it just sounded better to me. **3)** I tried really hard to keep them both in character, and to make the language sound authentic (they might not have said "kablam!" or "prick" or anything like that, but for lack of better words…), so please don't berate me about either of those things. **4)** I know, I know; Watson's emotions are UP and then down and then UP again, and it can be a bit confusing…but he just…finally cracked. Cos Holmes was driving him to the edge…Mkay? But Dr. Holmes fixed everything in the end.

So be happy. ^_^

NOW PLEASE REVIEW! IT WILL MAKE ME SO HAPPY! :D If you do, I will let you visit Rob Downey Jr. and Jude Law, they are hiding *coughcough* in my closet.......;]


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